I can almost hear the the Mister Softee music playing in my head. If you grew up in New York City, you know what I mean. In Brooklyn, the passing ice cream truck would get mobbed by kids on every block — each clutching mom’s money.
In the suburbs of New Jersey, I’ll occasionally see a beat-up old van, hand-painted, with a freezer in the back, reselling popsicles. Mister Softee dispensed the good stuff.